Holiday In Death

She turned her wedding band with her thumb as she parked her car in front of the main entrance.

She'd been everything, Jerry had said. Even a year before she wouldn't have understood that. Now she did.

She sat where she was a moment, dragged both hands through her already disordered cap of hair. The man's grief had wormed its way into her. That was a mistake; it wouldn't help and could possibly hinder the investigation. She needed to put it aside, to block out of her mind the devastation of emotion she'd felt from him when he'd all but collapsed in her arms.

Love didn't always win, she reminded herself. But justice could, if she was good enough.

She got out of her car, left it where it was, and started up the steps to the front door. The minute she was inside, she peeled out of her leather jacket and dropped it carelessly over the elegant newel post banking the curve of stairs.

Summerset slipped out of the shadows and stood, tall, bony, eyes dark and disapproving in a pale face. "Lieutenant."

"Leave my vehicle exactly where it is," she told him and swung toward the stairs.

He sniffed, an audible sucking of air through his nose. "You have several messages."

"They can wait." She kept climbing and began to fantasize about a hot shower, a glass of wine, and a ten-minute nap.

He called after her, but she'd already stopped listening. "Bite me," she said absently, then opened the door to the bedroom.

Everything inside her that had wilted, bloomed.

Roarke stood in front of the closet, stripped to the waist, his beautiful back muscles rippling subtly as he reached in for a fresh shirt. He turned his head, and the full power of that face struck her. The poet's mouth curved, the rich blue eyes smiled as he shook back his glorious mane of thick black hair.

"Hello, Lieutenant."

"I didn't think you'd be back for a couple of hours anyway."

He laid the shirt aside. She hadn't been sleeping well, he thought. He could see the fatigue, the shadows. "I made good time."

"Yeah, you did." Then she was going to him, moving fast, almost too fast to see the quick light of surprise, the deepening of pleasure in his eyes. His arms were open for her when she got there.

She drew in his scent, deeply, ran her hands up his back, firmly, then turned her face into his hair and sighed, once.

"You did miss me," he murmured.

"Just hold on for a minute, okay?"

"As long as you like."

Her body fit with his; somehow it simply fit like one piece of a puzzle inter-linking with another. She thought of the way Jeremy Vandoren had showed her the ring, the glinting promise of it.

"I love you." It was a shock to feel the raw tears in her throat, an effort to swallow them back. "I'm sorry I don't tell you often enough."

He'd heard the tears. His hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, to rub gently at the tension he felt knotted there. "What is it, Eve?"

"Not now." Steadier, she drew back, framed his face with her hands. "I'm so glad you're here. I'm so glad you're home." Her lips curved as she leaned in and slanted them over his.

Warmth, welcome, and the underlying shimmer of passion that never seemed fully sated. And with it, sheltered in it, she could for a little while push everything outside but this.

"Were you changing clothes?" she asked against his mouth.

"I was. Ummm. A little more of that," he murmured and nipped at her bottom lip until she shivered.

"Well, I think it's a waste of time." To prove it, she slipped her hands between their bodies and unbuttoned his trousers.

"You're absolutely right." He pressed the release on her shoulder holster and shoved it aside. "I love disarming you, Lieutenant."

In a quick move that had his brow arching, she twisted and had him pressed against the closet door. "I don't need a weapon to take you, pal."

"Prove it."

He was already hard when her hand curled around him. The blue of his eyes deepened with dark, dangerous lights flickering in them.

"You haven't been wearing your gloves again."

She smiled, sliding her chilly fingers up and down the length of him. "Is that a complaint?"

"No, indeed." His breath was clogging. Of all the women he'd known she was the only one who could leave him breathless with so little effort. He skimmed his hands up to cup her breasts, rubbed his thumbs gently over the nipples before unfastening the buttons of her shirt.

He wanted her under him.

"Come to bed."

"What's wrong with here?" She lowered her head, bit his shoulder. "What's wrong with now?"

"Not a thing." This time he moved fast, hooking a foot behind hers to throw her off balance, then tumbling with her to the floor. "But I've a mind to take you instead of the other way around."

His mouth clamped on her breast, sucking hard. Words strangled in her throat, images exploded in her brain, and her hips arched to him.

He knew her, better, he often thought, than she knew herself. She needed heat, the potent flood of it, to drown out whatever was troubling her mind. Heat he could give her, and he would pleasure them both with wave after wave.

She was thin. The weight she'd lost during her recovery couldn't be spared on her slim frame and had yet to be put back in place. But he knew she didn't want gentle strokes now. So he drove her, ruthlessly, relentlessly, until her breath was ragged and her heart slammed against his seeking mouth and hands.

She writhed under him, her hands in his hair fisted tight, her breasts bared for him with the long tear-shaped diamond he'd once given her resting in the shallow valley between.

He licked his way down her torso, over ribs, along the firm, flat belly, scraping teeth against the narrow line of hip as she began to buck. He tugged her trousers lower, exposing the soft curls between her thighs.

When he swept his tongue over her, into her, the orgasm struck like a lightning bolt. Blood pumped under her skin, brought a dew of sweat to the surface. She was half in, half out of the closet, surrounded by the scent of him, trapped in it and glorying.

She felt his fingers dig into her hips, lifting her, spreading her, taking her. Her own helpless moan echoed as he urged her up again. And flying, there was nothing left inside her but the driving need to mate.

She reached for him, panting his name as her hands slid off his shoulders, around his back, as her legs lifted to hook around his waist.

He glided into her, one smooth stroke of homecoming. His body shuddered once as she tightened around him, trapped him as she was trapped. His mouth crushed down on hers, feeding there as her hips began to pump.

Fast and hard, with their eyes on each other now. Thrust, retreat, and thrust, breathing each other's air. Closer, still closer with the good, solid slap of flesh against flesh.

She watched his eyes go opaque an instant before he rammed himself home. Her body erupted, shattered beneath his. When he lowered his head, pressed his face to her throat, she once more turned hers into his hair. Once more breathed in his scent.

"It's good to be home," he murmured.

She had her shower, her glass of wine, then what she considered the ultimate in decadence: di

"Tell me about it." He waited until she'd relaxed, until she'd eaten. Now he poured her another glass of wine and watched the shadows come back into her eyes.

"I don't want to bring my work home."

"Why not?" He smiled, refilled his own glass. "I do."

"It's different."

"Eve." He skimmed a finger over the slight dent in her chin. "We are, both of us, very much defined by what we do for a living. You don't – you can't leave your work outside the door any more than I can. It's inside you."